


We're Shining Through The Dark

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Because we all need some, But only a bit, Fluff, Frottage, Jealous Harry, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Musician Harry, Pining, Songwriter Louis, There will be sex, and sappiness, and that's because of silly misunderstandings, before we get to the face-splitting sappy stuff, but before that there's, but some, but they get over that quickly, by the magical concept of communicating, cheesy rom-com cliches, everyone's a bit obsessed with love, fate is involved, happiness, lots and lots of kissing, lots of happiness, lots of tooth rotting fluff, movie date nights, or fortunate accidents at least, semi-food fights in posh restaurants, so there will be, there's a heap of rom-com references, there's a little bit of, there's also, this is terrible tagging already i apologise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Tuesday morning at 07:27 a.m. Louis Tomlinson is met with the same, beautiful sight of a curly haired hipster sitting in the same seat on the same train they both take to work into Central London. Louis thinks he might be falling in love with him a bit more every day. Until of course, he actually does. </p><p>And maybe, just maybe, the curly haired hipster has been thinking the same exact thing.</p><p>Or the one where Louis is a songwriter who’s in love with love. Harry is a struggling unsigned musician and they meet via a oops-I-just-spilled-a-drink-down-your-shirt Notting Hill style incident. Things get very messy and very intense very quickly, and everyone is just a tad obsessed with rom-com narratives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhh I've posted it! This is my first try at a full length fanfic and I’m the only one who’s checked it so far so please forgive any errors and I hope it’s not too rubbish! I'm aiming for about eight chapters but we'll see how it goes.
> 
> It's told from both Louis' and Harry's POV's and they switch throughout the fic. It's just Louis' in this chapter though.
> 
> Title is taken from The Mowgli's 'Through The Dark'

_Are You In Love With A Notion? – The Courteeners_

* * *

 

Earbuds are in, a grey beanie on top of his head (despite the warmish temperature outside) and the longest piece of his caramel fringe pokes out of the front. Louis Tomlinson steps off the train, swipes his oyster through the gates, and makes his way to the tube he needs to catch on the underground.

He passes a young busker on the way through the Piccadilly line’s station and up toward the escalator – he drops a few quid that had been left disregarded in his jean pocket into a fetching black hat in front of a guy with a guitar, decently singing a quite lovely, acoustic rendition of _God Only Knows._ Louis’ always been a sucker for The Beach Boys.

Louis Tomlinson has also always been a romantic.

A hopeless romantic at that, and for generally such a cynical, sardonic person about practically everything else in existence, it’s slightly embarrassing and a tad disconcerting how much he believes in the notions of the silly cliché ideas about true love, and fate, and destiny, and all that bullshit. Because despite everything, despite not exactly having the best role models growing up to teach him about lasting relationships and life long bonds, he wants it all. Marriage, kids, the white picket fence and a decent sized garden, cups of tea in bed in on Sunday mornings, holding hands in the park, kisses on the nose for actually loading the dishwasher this time, and warm cuddles for no apparent reason other than being lucky enough to be in your significant other’s presence, and growing old together, surrounded by noisy grandchildren.

Louis wants it _all_.

The thing is, he knows it’s a long shot for most people. Most people end up settling for someone who’s just _okay_. Some people have to wait their whole lives before they find that special person, The One, if you will. He knows it's frankly unrealistic if we’re talking statistics wise.

Louis’ secretly an idealist disguised as a grumpy pessimist, what can he say?

He’s a massive sap if he’s being honest, but unless you work with him or know him pretty well and he trusts you enough – because Louis certainly doesn’t give that gold dust out easily – you won’t know about it, and instead you’ll get the guarded version of Louis, one that holds back on everything that makes him seem vulnerable and exposed to people he deems undeserving of his unyielding loyalty and devotion.

Because once you’ve made it into Louis Tomlinson’s heart - you’re in it for life - and he’ll make it his mission to always make you happy. He lives to make people laugh, to make people smile. Spread a little joy in an otherwise cruel, harsh, fucked up world. Louis is absolutely one of those people who, when he falls in love, will love you forever. Always in his heart. And that’s that.

So Louis is ridiculously sappy and soft and sentimental underneath his hardened exterior; we’ve established that.

But did he mention he’s also a songwriter?

You could say it’s kind of his job to stay in tune with the entire spectrum of human emotions – especially love. You can’t write about something you aren’t passionate about and still expect it to be somewhat decent, can you?

So Louis figures it kind of makes sense. Because if he didn’t really believe in what he was writing about, how could his songs ever be authentic enough to mean something to people if it was from anywhere else but the heart?

As a songwriter, one has to have at least a little bit of a romantic bone in their body, especially when your job involves more often than not, the hefty task of churning out love songs meant to be classics for up and coming and well established artists alike, and giving them massive hits in the process that put their names firmly on the music industry map.

And Louis does alright at it. He’s even got a few hits under his belt already. He’s making it so far, thanks to that little four letter word.

The most natural thing in the world. To be loved and to be in love. Love is the universal language, after all.

Yep, Louis writes about love in all its forms; romantic love, unrequited love, tragic love, platonic love, true love. Actually, come to think of it, Louis isn’t sure he’s ever written a song about anything else; whether it be about the heartbreak of losing your person, the newly experienced butterflies and first crushes, or all-consuming unconditional love and devotion, happiness and bliss, sadness and pain, star-crossed lovers, being in love and being loved in return, familial love even.

But most songs are written about love in some shape or form anyway, right? He hasn’t had any complaints thus far anyway.

The way he’s so outrageously obsessed with being in love, you’d be forgiven for assuming Louis must have loved and lost plenty of times throughout his short life.

Except, in his twenty four years, he’s never actually personally been in love.

Not properly at least. He’s liked people, sure. _Really_ liked them even. But he’s never felt that spark, that click, that immediate recognition of _oh, it’s you_. Not the kind where you live and breathe another person and everything they do or say endears you endlessly, constantly filled with a never-ending fondness for their quirks and general existence and just being with that person, whatever you might be doing, is the whole thing. Being with them is exactly the _thing._

As Jess Glynne once sang, _When I am with you, there’s no place I’d rather be._

Yeah, Louis hasn’t experienced that. Ever.

And yet still he’s in love with love.

So he’s basically Ewan McGregor’s character in _Moulin Rouge_. He’s Christian searching for his muse. Only a less awkward version, and less naive and less inexperienced (but not in the sexual sense, Louis’ pretty good at that, thanks, he’s not a nun) and much less obvious about his obsession and fascination with it, and here’s hoping Louis’ first love doesn’t die a horrible death in his arms. Jesus. No, thanks. He’ll pass on that one. Yeah, definitely not better to have loved than not at all if that’s the way things end for him. No, ta. That’s just fucking depressing. As was that film. Bloody hell. 

But although he’s not been in love yet, he has seen _When Harry Met Sally_ at least thirty three times. Does that count? As a love bible perhaps? (Let’s never use that phrase again.) And he may have watched it another twelve times in the last three months or so. As well as _You’ve Got Mail_  four times, and _Sleepless in Seattle_ twice. What? He likes Meg Ryan romantic comedies, alright? They’re the good ones, the gems, the classics. And he might have also watched his fair share of less than satisfactory ones as well. He watched _Serendipity_ last night too, because you know, it’s about fate and fortunate accidents and weaving in and out of your true love’s life without even knowing it. And it’s Christmas and there’s snow and Andrew Lincoln. Oops, wrong film. Oh yeah, he might have also put on _Love Actually_ in the middle of August. Fuck it. It’s a good film. Heart-warming for the senses. _"To Me You Are Perfect."_   And fuck, if he wouldn't give anything for someone to turn up at his door like that with those exact words on a bit of cardboard. It's all lovely, comforting stuff.

And also good therapy for the absolute, hopeless misery he’s feeling at the moment.

Because every Tuesday morning at 07:27 a.m. Louis Tomlinson is met with the same, beautiful sight of a curly haired hipster, always sitting in the same seat on the same train they both take to work into the same city, Central London.

Louis thinks he might be falling in love with him a bit more every day. Well, obviously as much as you can fall in love with a complete stranger, that is. Which is... not that much realistically. Obviously. But he’s got one of those faces. The ones that for some reason you just recognise, that you find familiar right away, convinced you know them somehow.

(Or you know, it’s because he’s just that fucking beautiful.)

He’s stupidly enamoured with someone he doesn’t actually know yet. But he really does want to get to know this person. And Louis’ certain he’ll like him. That Louis will like him that is. And if Curly likes him too, well then, that would be pretty fucking great.

He’s found himself watching this curly lad more often than not, quietly taking mental notes of the way he sleepily stares out of his window seat, resting his cheek on the window with his headphones on usually, sometimes over a beanie (he’s not a stalker by the way, he can’t help it if his gaze instinctively searches out the guy, can he? And besides, they take the same train which is a complete coincidence. Not his fault) and Louis often helplessly steals glances at this seemingly angelic creature from afar, who is always incredibly polite to passengers around him – nauseatingly polite actually – he’s very docile, basically appears and acts like a benevolent Disney prince from what he’s witnessed so far – last week he actually got out of his seat and helped an old lady hobble off the train and onto the platform – and he has the cutest dimples he’s ever seen and he’s been pining for this guy for probably months now.

Alright, so just over three months to be exact and so far fourteen Tuesdays in a row – Louis absolutely knows how long it’s been and he’s been counting the times he sees him on these mornings in a totally non-creepy way.

It’s probably just a completely innocent crush. Curly is super pretty, like stunning – he even yawns cute to be honest, and his eyes – he looks like a bloody piece of priceless _art_ , they just wander...

It’s a given that Louis’ gaze would find him.

Okay, so it’s not the strongest of arguments. But Louis defies anyone to look at Curly and not want to do a double take. It’s obscene. To be _that_ attractive. It really is. Rude, really. How dare he, to be honest.

And alright, when he says watching him from afar, it’s really not from that far away actually, considering Louis sits in the opposite part of the carriage only about six feet away from him in the seat he always picks out by the window.

And maybe sometimes he’s even closer than that if it’s a particularly packed train and if he ends up standing against the plastic window that leads into Curly’s part of the carriage, and happens to take a few peeks, then that’s not his fault either. Blame the lack of crowd control and the shoddily run London transport system.

Blame the damn Mayor, not Louis Tomlinson, thanks very much.

But after weeks of pining after this curly cherub on the train, Louis’ very own rom-com kick starts its inciting incident where the two leads finally meet.

It all officially starts on a Saturday with a crash and a shrill squawk and a deep sounding _oops_ (and a mild case of concussion probably) as Louis’ face smacks into a very firm, very lean muscled chest and an large iced coffee is subsequently thrown all down Louis’ brand new Snoopy white t-shirt he’d bought in Selfridges only the day before, likely stained permanently now and _brilliant_.

“Oh, great! That’s almost fifty quid down the drain so thanks very much you clumsy twat! I might do alright, but I’m not made of money! I’ve not seen half of my royalties yet!” He yells, and more indignant squeaking ensues. He touches his face, searching for injuries. “I think you might actually have given me a head injury! Am I bleeding? Oh my God, I think I am!”

Oh, it’s just a splash of coffee on his forehead...

But _oh_

_It’s you._

The air is knocked out of his chest – which, okay, is probably more down to the painful human body collision that literally just happened rather than the sight of Curly standing right here in front of him.

But it’s _absolutely_ because Curly is standing here right in front of him.

Granted he’s ruined his t-shirt and basically given him mild concussion but _oh God._

A pair of startled, pale green (and frankly coma inducing) eyes stare back at him in shock, mouth agape before he launches into apologising profusely, over and over, dabbing frantically at Louis with a napkin in his bloody massive hand ( _Jesus,_ they make Louis’ look like kitten paws) – and notices he has more rings on his fingers than ones without and makes a speedy, mental prayer that none of these rings are part of a duo he shares with any kind of significant other. His silky brown curls and waves are falling into his face, one side brushed into a high quiff, as he shakes his head feverishly, the length of it going way past his shoulders (and _ohmygod_ he actually has _ringlets_ at the ends) and he’s now looking at Louis hopelessly like he’s literally just run over his dog by the way his face is crumpled and nervous and beet root red.

He probably thinks Louis is about to scream expletives at him in the middle of the street. Which, yeah, if it was anyone else Louis probably would be doing that about now. But this is _the_ Curly Hipster (who could possibly be his soulmate by the way) and this guy doesn’t really look or seem like the type to particularly thrive off confrontations – not like Louis, he loves a good argument, which he _always_ wins, _thank you_ – from the way he’s fumbling over him and apologising repeatedly, bumbling his way through his speech.

Any second now and he’ll be begging forgiveness while down on his knees and

_nope, inappropriate thoughts be gone, now is not the time._

He’s still dabbing at Louis’ chest, but Louis doesn’t mind all that much anymore if it means this tall, devastatingly gorgeous man he's been longingly staring at for weeks keeps on touching him – and _oh okay_ , now he’s pulling him even closer, albeit unnecessarily closer, and his hand is clinging loosely to his _wrist_ – _has long has that been there_? His thumb is resting on his pulse point and Louis hopes to God he can’t tell his heart rate is through the roof right now and he’s still talking _at_ him and _has Louis even taken in a word he’s said yet?_

“Hi,” Louis says before he can stop himself. He clears his throat. “It’s fine, mate. Really, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Not like you did it on purpose.”

He steps back feeling dazed and like he’s a bit concussed. He manages to tear his gaze away long enough from Green Eyes to peer down, and inspects his t-shirt, stretching out the fabric at the bottom with both of his, well, _kitten paws_  now he guesses ( _great_ , _thanks for making me feel more tiny than I already do, Curly, but I forgive you because you’re fucking gorgeous and look like you could pick me up and throw me over your shoulder_ ) noticing the now empty discarded coffee container resting against the toe of his Vans.

Yep, it’s ruined.

And his head might hurt a bit but Louis is no longer pissed off.

(Really, it lasted all of five seconds.)

Instead, he feels slightly drunk from staring at Curly’s dreamy eyes and his porcelain cherub like face – and he’s so _pretty_ , even more so up close and it’s like he was sculpted personally by the Gods – and that _jaw_ and those pinker than pink Jagger-esque _lips_ that are nothing short of _obscene_ and Louis is suddenly hyper aware of the warm, if a little clammy, touch of his hand burning into his skin.

And he’s still holding onto his wrist.

“Accidents happen,” he says, smiling so wide that crinkles appear in the corners of his eyes, and finding himself completely preoccupied with his frankly sinful mouth.

His reassurances must seem genuine enough though, because he notices Curly’s abs visibly relax and his shoulders fall significantly, his incredibly tight – and incredibly transparent – plain white t-shirt revealing just how bothered and _huge_ his nipples are.

Holy shit.

He’s surprised he doesn’t appear to have a piercing on either of them.

_Keep it together Tomlinson, look up, look up. Eyes are located on the face._

Curly produces a lopsided smile and an actual dimple appears. And he’s witnessing this, right here, right now, in the fucking flesh.

Louis feels dizzy. He gulps, staring at it dumbly, wanting to reach out and just _poke_ it.

Curly stands with a concerned expression, waits a beat before answering. “Are you sure? You sure you’re alright? I really am sorry I wasn’t more careful. Are you sure you’re okay?” he says desperately.

And his voice is so deep, and it drawls really slowly, though something tells Louis this is probably the fastest he can speak, and it’s kind of morbid, but he’d punch anyone else in the face for saying the same.

It’s sort of strangely endearing.

And that definitely isn’t a London accent; it sounds more like he’s from somewhere up near Manchester – so Curly is a fellow Northerner. Nice. He hasn’t heard another Northern accent for ages.

And this one is particularly attractive, soothing to his ears, raspy but smooth like velvet or honey and _sigh_

Louis’ free hand – which is not currently bound to Curly’s, and at this rate he wouldn’t care if it was tied to him indefinitely – reaches his forehead, rubbing it gingerly, taking in how much bigger Harry is than himself, still dumbstruck.

“God, I’m so clumsy. I ran into you so hard, I think you would have gone down face first if I hadn’t pulled you back,” he laughs nervously, obviously having noticed his hand still attached to Louis’ wrist, his thumb beginning to actually _caress_ it. Curly flinches immediately when he realises what he’s doing and the loss of his touch – and his heat – hits Louis for six. _No, come back._

_Fucking hell, Tommo. Calm down. Jesus. You don’t even know the guy’s name._

“M’ Harry,” he says. “Harry Styles.”

_Well, now you do._

_So that’s your name._

“I’m Louis. Louis Tomlinson.”

“Hi, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry grins wide, dimples popping.

“Hi, Harry Styles,” Louis echoes, an equally stupid grin on his own face.

Harry laughs a breathy laugh, almost impossible to hear. “I like your top by the way, you know, without the coffee stains. It’s nice, s’ cute.”

“Oh, I see, complimenting me now, are you? After you’ve gone and destroyed it beyond repair,” he teased. “Okay, I see.”

And yep, Louis is definitely flirting, nodding, bouncing slightly on the heels of his feet.

Harry laughs like a hyena, one loud bark, throwing his head downwards.

Louis didn’t even consider what he said funny, but Harry clearly did, and whatever sound he just made, Louis was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to always be the one to make Harry laugh like that.

They stare at each other for a few beats, shy smiles on each of their faces. The sky above them is getting greyer by the second, the sun completely disappearing behind the clouds and yet Louis’ never felt warmer.

“I really am sorry. I’m happy to reimburse you for the t-shirt,” Harry says earnestly. “Selfridges?”

“Yeah, how did you know that?”

“I go there quite a bit. It’s one of my favourite stores. But really, I know the t-shirt wasn’t that cheap. I can pay you back. Least I can do. Really.”

And now it’s starting to rain. Quite hard.

“ _No_ ,” he says, a tad too impassioned. “You don’t have to pay me back for the t-shirt, don’t be silly, Harold, _God_ ,” he almost squawks, his pitch going up a notch. “Really, it’s just a t-shirt. It’s a _t-shirt._ It’s not a big deal, at all. I’m just a drama queen, ignore my obnoxious outburst earlier. Can’t believe I thought I was bleeding after colliding into your chest.” He rolls his eyes at himself.

Harry laughs like a hyena again. At what, Louis doesn’t know. Maybe it was the nickname it’s far too early to give to still, technically, a stranger.

But his smile is heavenly and he’s sunshine personified and Louis still wants to always be the one to make him do that. He does.

 _Uh oh_. Things are getting real deep, real fast.

“Listen, it’s starting to rain pretty hard, and I ruined your shirt with coffee and you’re pretty soaked now as well. As am I,” he smiles, and runs a hand through his hair, contemplating his next words. “I only live literally down the road,” he starts hesitantly. “Why don’t you come back to mine for a sec and you can borrow one of my t-shirts to go home in, or wherever it is you need to go?”

Louis makes a noise to protest but Harry cuts him off with, “ _Please_ , it would make me feel a lot better after this. I’m extremely embarrassed and very sorry and – ”

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis holds up a hand. “Stop saying sorry, will ya? I think you’ve proved you’re sorry enough. You’ve said it like three hundred times already.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Louis cocks his head to the side, a smirk creeping up in the corner of his mouth.

Harry smiles again, his dimples fully on display as the rain splatters onto the pavement, both getting progressively wetter, Harry’s long hair practically dripping at the ends now. Louis has barely even registered the rain soaking them through.

And by the looks of it, Harry hasn’t either, or he’s not that bothered.

Neither is Louis.

Everyone else around them on the busy street is pulling up their umbrellas, some clutching at their hoodies, others shielding their faces with papers and bags from the cold shower they would rather have skipped, while Louis and Harry are tuned in to nothing but each other.

“Okay, we really are drenched now,” Harry laughs. “So if I were you, I’d definitely take me up on this offer,” he says, smiling, mischief glittering his green eyes. “Come on, it’s the least I can do. But no pressure, obviously,” he adds hurriedly. “I mean it’s totally up to you, of course. Whatever you want to do is good with me.”

Then Harry turns away from Louis, and actually holds out his _arm_ for him.

Louis lets out a surprised breathy laugh.

_Who the hell is this kid?_

“Alright,” Louis sighs, but says it with a grin so wide not even the torrential rain can wash it off.

 ** 

When they got to Harry’s flat – it was right on the corner like he said, a tiny semi-detached, grey and black bricked, kind of beat down place with a sky blue door, the number 78 in bronze brass, the paint work chipped and worn, but it had character and charm.

Louis liked it immediately. (Nothing to do with its tenant, obviously.)

They were both completely soaked through and their jeans were uncomfortably wet so Harry had run upstairs to grab some towels and handed one to Louis.

Harry had then rushed around the place while he politely asked Louis to wait in the hallway or in their ‘shoebox sized living room’ as Harry put it, so he could quickly clean up a bit, despite Louis telling him not to worry himself – Louis’ place was an absolute tip, far, far worse than his, as _messy_ seemed to be Louis’ middle name – but Harry had insisted and right now, he could hear plates and mugs clatter about and smashes coming from the kitchen ahead, cupboard doors slamming shut, the dishwasher rattling and Harry’s noisy, fumbling footsteps on the wooden tiling and the occasional _shit_  being whisper-shouted.  

At last, Harry calls him in. “Okay, it’s half-decent!”

Louis wanders into the kitchen, his hair damp and his fringe a mess, fixing it absently as he watches Harry fuss about with glasses.

“Do you want something to drink, Louis? Er, I can make you a tea? Coffee?” Harry winces at the mention of coffee again, “Not iced! Obviously,” he corrects, a smirk teasing at his lips, but before Louis can answer, watching him with growing fondness and fascination, _and God, Louis was already in danger of being a goner_ , Harry launches himself over to the fridge, littered with photos. He seems to have a black and white Polaroid aesthetic. Bloody hipster. 

He notices a few in colour with a kind looking, much older brunette woman (his mum?) and a blonde girl with brown roots who looks slightly older than Harry and has a very clear likeness to him (they must be siblings, Louis guesses) and a blonde, blue eyed bloke with a blinding smile and a pint in his hand, and some weird looking novelty magnets from places he’s obviously visited abroad. There’s some other people too, a ginger guy and a couple other of guys as well, all smiling and with their arms around Harry, trademark dimples on display.

Louis silently hopes Harry is very unattached to any of these people in the romantic sense. And is very much single. And very not straight would also help. But he’s pretty sure that’s the case anyway based on the _wrist caress_ at the very least.

“We have orange juice, or cranberry?” He holds up a carton of each in both hands. Then he puts them back and gets out an energy drink Louis has never heard of, then a gross looking green substance in a blender (and he tells him so – Harry releases another barked laugh) and then he crouches down to fish out a bottle of mineral water from the bottom draw of the fridge.

“I’m fine, really. Thank you, Harry.”

“Okay,” he says, a bit deflated, but still smiling.

It makes Louis’ chest contract.

 _Oh, you idiot_. He should have just said yes to any of them. Now he looks rude after all that. Louis curses himself.

“Oh, a t-shirt!” He blurts suddenly, Louis’ eyes widen in surprise. “You need a clean t-shirt. I’ll just get that for you, ‘cause that was obviously the reason I brought you back here.” Harry’s cheeks were reddening. “I’ll er, I’ll be right down!”

He sprints out of the kitchen and Louis peers out of the kitchen to see Harry climb up the stairs with his long limbs, looking like a literal giant, his brown suede Chelsea boot buckles clanking as he goes.

Harry doesn’t re-appear until ten minutes later. Louis is just about to brave going upstairs to find him when, “Sorry! I was having trouble finding anything clean for you to wear and er, appropriate for you.”

Harry walks back into the kitchen, a bit out of breath and flushed.

“You mean everything you own would probably swamp me like a tent?” he says, faking offense.

“No!”

“I’m joking, Harry.”

“Oh, right,” he smiles. Then it turns into a nervous grimace. “I just have a lot of blouses more than anything else, and they’re all, I guess, a slightly unusual taste for most people. Mostly they’re all floral and sheer and a bit wild and well, you look a bit more emo.” He gestures to Louis’ black Vans and eyes the skull tattoo on his wrist, handing him a well-worn, grey Ramones tee, clearly too small for Harry now.

Louis laughs as he accepts it. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t have minded. I’m sure you have a very quirky, cool taste in fashion. Nothing wrong with that, Harold.”

A small smile tugs timidly at Harry’s mouth. “I kind of have a fixation with anything that’s a bit more feminine,” he says, fiddling with the necklace he’s wearing. “I get some funny looks sometimes. But clothes are just clothes, right? Why are clothes assigned genders anyway? They’re clothes! Like if I see a top I want that’s not in the Men’s section, what, I’m not allowed to buy it? It’s bullshit. I don’t see why people can’t just wear what they want,” he shrugs.

Louis is suddenly overcome with a protective rage stirring within him. If anyone has ever made Harry feel bad for the way he looks or for what he _chooses_ to wear...

 _God_ , the idea makes Louis want to go off like an explosive device. He wants to smack them square in the jaw for saying anything less than complimentary to Harry.

“ _Exactly_. They’re just clothes. People should be able to wear whatever they want from whatever section in a store they want, male, female, whatever. If you wanna wear pink flowery tops, you wear them, Harry. Just do you,” he says, a little too passionately, he thinks for only officially meeting him not even an hour ago.

But Louis wants to make sure no one ever made Harry feel less than the special, incredibly endearing guy he seems to be. “That’s what I always say anyway. Who cares what anyone else thinks. You don’t need their seal of approval to be valid, Harry. Fuck ‘em. Fuck the lot of them.”

A wide grin spreads on Harry’s face and he bites his bottom lip; his eyes are blown wide and completely transfixed with Louis like he's the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

Louis feels heat rise to his cheeks by the way Harry is staring so intently at him.

Then he lifts up his coffee stained t-shirt and pulls it off, his hair sticking up in every direction. “This is actually from the teenage girl’s section in Selfridges,” he grins.

He stands there shirtless for a few seconds as he puts on the t-shirt Harry has kindly lent him.

Harry’s eyes immediately fall to Louis’ smooth, tanned skin, absorbed by his small, but muscled torso and blushes when he catches Louis’ gaze.

He actually _blushes._

Then Louis realises Harry is holding a plastic bag and takes it as he passes it to him, clearing his throat and fidgeting on the spot awkwardly. “Erm, this is a bit random,” he says after a few beats of silence. “But... do you take the 07:27 Charing Cross train, um, on Tuesday mornings by any chance?”

Had Harry seen him too then? Did he stare at him on the train every morning as well, studying his facial expressions? Wondering what he was like? What his favourite albums were? What he sounded like when he belly laughed? What his hair felt like between his fingertips?

“Yeah,” he gapes. “I do.”

Harry’s little face positively lights up like a Christmas tree. “Thought so,” he grins. “Thought it was you. I see you on the train all the time.” He hesitates. “And at the station too. Pretty sure it’s you I’ve seen occasionally on the Central line on Friday evenings as well. We also might have seen each other in Covent Garden through a window one time?” He visibly cringes at himself and awaits Louis’ reaction.

Louis feels like he is absolutely going to burst with the affection and adrenaline souring through his veins.

He’s noticed Louis just as much as Louis has noticed him. How is that possible? How have they not seen each other staring at the same time? The thought that fate might actually be real crosses his mind momentarily before he’s brought back to reality, when Harry speaks again.

“Uh, I sound a bit like a stalker now. Sorry.” He blushes again. “I’m not, I promise,” he says seriously, holding his hands up slightly, with such genuine worry that Louis would think that of him.

_He’s too much._

“No, it’s okay,” Louis gets out, but barely, hyper aware how soft his voice sounds. “I’ve seen you around as well,” he admits, though he leaves out the parts where he’s stared so hard at him that his filthy mind has wondered what he sounds like when he gasps or moans, or what he feels like when his skin is hot and sweaty, and what those gorgeous curls smell like at any point in the day and what his hot breath feels like on his face and on his neck and how he tastes and 

_Louis is a perv. A giant perv._

“Yeah?” Harry’s brows shoot up, surprised.

“Yeah, all the time, actually,” Louis says tenderly, trying with all his might to suppress the face-splitting grin fighting its way onto his face.

Harry’s smile falters and disappears and Louis wants to know where the hell it has gone and buggered off to.

He’s about to make a really lousy joke about gaps on the tube to make that dopey smile come back when suddenly Harry moves closer, his face serious like he’s concentrating and thinking hard about something.

_ 66 – Afghan Whigs _

And there is something else, something unidentifiable in his gaze.

Almost like he – _almost_  like

And now Harry is officially in Louis’  personal space, leaning over him, chest rising and falling and Louis’ throat feels tight.

He’s so close now that he can feel his rapid, warm breaths hit his messy fringe, blowing some dry stands out of the way, while the rest of his hair remains damp.

Louis looks down and sees Harry’s hand is trembling a little and his breath is getting shakier by the second and the heat between them is almost too much judging by the uncomfortably resting bulge against his too tight skinny jeans.

Harry certainly isn’t much better off.

He flicks his eyes back up towards his face and meets Harry’s gaze and it _burns,_ making him light-headed. Louis flexes his toes in his Vans and simply waits, sure he’s giving him enough charged, intense eye contact with his ice blue eyes that are silently asking him _kiss me_

“Can I –” Harry says at last, so quietly, Louis has to strain to hear him.

“Yeah,” Louis barely whispers back.

And Harry’s soft mouth is on his.

_Oh, Holy God._

Harry’s pouty Jagger lips are pressing plush against Louis’ thin ones as Louis’ breath hitches at the sudden contact. Soft smacking sounds begin to fill up the tension filled silence, their heavy breathing mixing with even wetter sounds as their kisses start to grow deeper and downright filthy in between brief pauses to nuzzle each other’s necks, kissing those up and down too.

Louis can’t believe this is finally happening, currently overwhelmed with want and so desperate to not make any wrong moves that will scare Harry off. Though at this particular point in time, it doesn’t feel like anything is going to stop Harry kissing him. He hasn’t even known Harry personally for an hour yet but he feels like he’s known him for so much longer already, and as crazy as it sounds to himself, it’s somehow as if this was always supposed to happen.

Pining after an idea for so long will do that to you, he thinks, a tad bitterly, but _no, not now brain,_ and he pushes it away and lets himself utterly melt into Harry’s feverish kisses, and by the way Harry’s mouthing at him so heartily, his hands cupping Louis’ face so gently, it’s almost as if he’s wanted this for as long as Louis has...

Now their hands are roaming around each other’s upper bodies, wandering hands on chests and then they travel down to each other’s stomachs as their lips suck and press with increased pressure, their heads tilting to change positions every so often.

Louis notes their kisses are really getting fucking frantic now, like they can’t get enough of each other, and Louis half-wonders if his stubble is too rough for Harry's smooth shaven skin, but he doesn't seem to mind at least, the need for his mouth on Harry's overpowering any other thoughts. Their hungry, hot breaths are overflowing between them and Louis occasionally slips his hesitant tongue into Harry’s mouth to taste him further, and Harry responds eagerly by doing the same to Louis.

Louis finds his hands drifting up to grip onto Harry’s hair tightly, scrunching it in his fists and Harry grabs possessively at Louis’ bum in answer.

Harry’s hands are practically covering his cheeks _completely_.

 _Jesus Christ_.

Louis releases a high moan before he can stop himself and Harry keens, looks down at him, locking his gaze with Louis for the first time since they starting kissing, his pupils blown and an even darker green. He starts peppering kisses along his jaw line, mouthing down and down to his neck and

_Oh, God. This was crazy. But so fucking awesome._

Harry clutches at him tighter, wrapping his arms tightly around Louis’ upper body, a deep moan escaping his own lips. Literally latching onto him with Louis on his tippy toes, almost every part of their damp, clammy clothed bodies press firmly together, moulding to each others’  bodies like two puzzle pieces. Louis’ hands find the back of Harry’s neck and hold on, his thumbs caressing underneath Harry’s earlobes.

They fit perfectly.

They kiss some more, not wanting to break apart their mouths, then Harry’s hands move to Louis’ waist and Louis’ hands bunch up the damp fabric of his t-shirt.

And then Harry’s hips start to grind against Louis. Louis makes a muffled moan high in his throat, as Harry moves his body so steadily and devastatingly slowly that it’s causing Louis’ legs to buckle, only being held up by one of Harry’s strong hands behind the back of his knee, one sliding briefly under the Ramones t-shirt, pressing into the small of Louis’ back.

They swing around and Louis reaches out to grip one hand on the kitchen work surface behind himself, pinned against it, the other flat against Harry’s pounding chest, as he moves his crotch in time with Harry’s, who is draped over Louis panting, rutting up against him, both half-hard.

 _Christ_.

And now they’re swinging again; Louis’ feet lift off the floor and his back lands awkwardly against the fridge as novelty magnets crash one by one onto the tiles, soft whines escaping as their kisses are resumed. Louis sucks Harry’s bottom lip and drags it backwards with his teeth. Harry lets out a guttural groan, burying his face in the side of Louis’ neck, his breath tickling hot on his skin.

Their eager pants start to speed up, as do their desperate grinds, and this is getting more frenzied by the second and his bum _buzzed_

_what_

His hands immediately reach behind himself and land on Harry’s, groping at his bum cheeks through his jeans. He moves Harry’s hands away and digs out his phone from his left pocket.

“I gotta take this,” Louis breathes out, gasping to catch his breath, watching Harry’s chest rise and fall, his vision stuck to Louis’ face in awe and he can feel his own hammering chest wildly, feeling his heart rattling behind his rib cage. “ _Fuck,”_ he whispers, watching Harry lean in for another kiss, turning his head to the side to stop him.

Louis backs away a fraction, conscious of the loss of contact of Harry’s body, and holds his phone to his ear as Harry actually _pouts at him_ , frowning impatiently.

Louis can’t help but smirk and lets out a breathy laugh, highly amused by Harry’s little silent tantrum. He answers his phone. “Yeah?”

“ _Louis,_ where are you? I’ve been waiting outside the studio for you for the last half an hour like a bloody lemon. _You_ have the keys, remember?” 

“Shit, Liam. Sorry, I lost track of the time,” he says, trying to even out his breathing. “Running? No, I’ve not been running. Who do you take me for? I, er, had a little accident, that’s all.”

“Accident?” Liam’s voice screeched from the other end of the phone.

“Not that kind of accident, don’t worry. I’m fine. Liam, I’m fine. It was – it was nothing.” He glances at Harry who baulks momentarily. Or maybe he’s seeing things, his head was spinning wildly, making it difficult to think at all. “I’ll be there soon as I can. Sorry to keep you waiting, alright? Okay, yeah, okay. Oi, shut up!” he giggles. “Oh behave, Lima, don’t give me that, you love it! I’m not the one whose got pecs like a pro!” Louis barks out laughter, his eyes crinkling with fond.

He glances again at a now practically petulant Harry. Louis frowns.

Geez, he’s eager. He looks almost annoyed. Not that Louis minds. _Winky face._

“Yeah. Okay, I’ll be there in a bit,” his tone affectionate as always when it comes to Liam. They’d been best friends for years now and he had put up with Louis’ pining for Harry for as long as Louis had first seen him on the train, having to listen to Louis ramble on and on about how the curly hipster on the train might be his soulmate, so Liam would be glad that something had finally pushed that story along at last. Obviously he couldn’t tell him now though. Not with Harry staring at him. Still frowning.“Yeah, alright, Li. Bye, babe. Byeeee,” he smiles into the phone as he hangs up.

He slips his phone back in his back pocket slowly.

Louis really, _really_ doesn’t want to leave.

But the atmosphere has oddly changed dramatically and is kind of... awkward. Weird. And Harry’s eyes have narrowed, looking at Louis like he’s waiting for an explanation.

“I’m gonna have to go now,” Louis says apologetically, ready to spontaneously combust on the spot with how much he desperately wants his lips on his again, his hands in his hair, the feel of him against his jeans... “I have to be somewhere work related and I’m late,” he forces out. “Very late now,” he says, his head titling up to reach Harry’s chin, nosing at his jaw and clinging to the bottom of Harry’s practically sheer t-shirt. “Don’t wanna go, though,” he whispers.

“M’ sorry,” he mumbles. He backs away from Louis’ grip and Louis reluctantly lets go, face falling. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have just assumed that –” Harry goes quiet, gawping at Louis with a permanent crease in the middle of his brows.

There’s a short confused silence.

“Assumed what?” Louis asks, perplexed.

“Just, sorry for keeping you. You can keep the shirt by the way,” he rushes out miserably. “It’s old anyway, too small for me now.” Harry tries to smile but barely makes one passable;  it’s clearly an effort to force it.

_What the hell?_

Okay, now Louis is really confused. “Okay, thanks.”

“I’m sorry again for crashing into you and ruining your shirt.”

So even when he’s clearly annoyed, he stills finds it in him to be polite.

“Harry –” 

Harry abruptly leaves the kitchen without another word and goes to open the front door.

Louis follows dumbly, picking up the plastic bag containing his t-shirt that had fallen to the tiles mid-kiss. And it was one hell of a kiss. Or more like a hundred kisses.

They had been practically dry humping in the kitchen. Scratch that. They literally _had_ been dry humping in Harry’s kitchen. Who knows how far they would have gone if Liam hadn’t called. _Thanks, Liam_. Louis’ not sure either of them would have been the first to stop.

But those were some really hot kisses that Louis would really, really love to happen again but Harry seems almost moody now and Louis is not sure how the atmosphere changed quite so quickly from _I want to rip your clothes off_   _and lick your neck_ to _sorry about the coffee incident for the hundredth time and have a nice life._

It’s not Louis’ fault he has to leave for work. That he has a life. He’s acting like a petulant child quite frankly.

Harry leans on the door frame gingerly as Louis steps out onto a damp pavement, the sun peeking back out from behind the clouds and beaming onto the road, a blue sky blossoming overhead.

Funny. Louis feels like his head is clouded by grey skies instead.

“Rain’s stopped now at least,” Harry says with a disinterested tone, not looking at him.

“Yeah,” Louis says, growing more irritated by the second and upset by his sudden frostiness. “Alright, well, thanks again and see you around, I guess?” he says, dejectedly. “As usual?” he adds and tries a grin.

Harry gives him a sad smile, verging on upset himself and replies, “Yeah, see you around.”

And he shuts the blue front door with the brass number 78 on it.

Louis stares at it.

Louis exhales a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, gaping at the door, feeling very shit, very embarrassed and very used to be honest. So he resumes his walk to the tube to the recording studio, the walk that Harry had so aggressively interrupted, still able to taste iced latte on his lips, wondering what the hell he did wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silly misunderstandings, miserable pining, embarrassing encounters in bookshops and possibly a little bit of fate abound.

_Undo – The 1975_

* * *

 

“Play that beat again for me,” Liam said, eyebrows furrowed in a serious line, (Liam has always been a rather solemn guy – until Louis corrupted him of course) concentration darkening his brown eyes further, as he put his headphones back on, fiddling with a couple of the hundreds of buttons and levers lined in rows in front of him. “I wanna try something.” He clicked on a sound bar for the bass, several multi-coloured lines spiking up as he pressed play on the computer screen.

Louis ignored him, finding a section of the burgundy wooden flooring far more enticing.

“Louis? Did you hear me?” He huffed out a loud sigh, resuming his clicks, eyes glued to the computer. After a few more beats of silence, Liam turned to face Louis, eyeing him suspiciously, then frowned. “God, you’re a grumpy sod. What the hell’s up with you?” he said, his patience wearing thin, even though he was more than used to Louis’ mood swings.

“Is this still about Harry?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

Of course it was. Louis hadn’t been able to think about anything else. And he felt pathetic for it.

But Louis had still spent the last couple of days in the studio, feeling confused and dejected, messing around halfheartedly with a few songs they were supposed to be putting the final, polished touches on.

Instead, (and very unhelpfully, might he add) Louis had taken up most of the precious studio time ploughing through every sad love song he had ever written, in his black, leather bound journal, (which wasn’t that many as it turned out) scribbling down some incredibly bleak and depressing lyrics underneath old existing songs, most of which he’d written as a teenager. At least there wasn't an artist writing with them that day or Louis would be solely responsible for the death of his credibility.  

Liam had gawped at him in mild bewilderment as he read some of them over his shoulder. (Louis’ feeble attempts at swatting him away had been futile.)

Why couldn’t he leave him be to drown in his childish sulk.

Well, he had a actual job to do, for one thing.

Though Louis was one of those people who liked to wallow in their misery, (if he wanted to be bitter, people needed to let him be bitter, thank you very much) and thrived off it creatively, as everyone always says. (Golden for inspiration, he tells himself, despite feeling like absolute shit.)

Also, come Tuesday morning, there was of course the tiny, inescapable detail that he would be seeing a certain someone on the train.

And so he’s been absolutely dreading the weekend coming to a close, because before he knew it, Monday would be over with and Tuesday morning would be around in the blink of an eye, and he’d have to see Harry again – which he both did and didn’t want to do. Mostly didn't. Not yet. (He wanted a bit more time to sulk first.)

Mainly because he had no doubt it would probably be awkward as fuck now that they’d passionately made out, groped at each other shamelessly, and dry humped against his kitchen worktop, and against his fridge, and panted hot breaths into each other’s mouths and...

And it had been as close to perfect as Louis could have ever imagined. He’d built it up so much in his head, that when reality hit and finally Louis was experiencing kissing Harry, not having to fantasize or imagine what it would feel like anymore, and it was so much _better_ than he thought it would be. Every touch, kiss, swipe of his tongue...

Because the fantasy had become reality.

For all of ten minutes, but still.

“I’m your songwriting _partner,_ Louis. Let me have a look, will you?” he bemoaned.

Then probably wished he hadn’t asked at all.

“Louis, this verse reads as bloody suicidal, mate, and to be honest, I’m not quite sure this is what the label had in mind for an upbeat, feel-good pop album –”

There were a few beats of silence and then it was filled with the sounds of a painfully out of tune guitar, absently being strummed by a positively sullen Louis, pausing to slurp on a milkshake obnoxiously. He removed his dainty lips from the straw after a few loud sips. Liam frowned disapprovingly.

“I could not give two flying fucks what the label has in mind right now, Liam,” Louis had announced wearily, plucking on the strings of the acoustic guitar draped on top of himself, lounging lazily in his chair with his bare ankles dangling over the side of the armrest (the look of pristine professionalism, obviously), the hood of his green oversized hoodie drawn up, hiding his sunken eyes. He had the hangover from Satan himself after getting absolutely plastered Saturday and Sunday night in a row.

“Oh, pack it in will, you,” Liam snapped, but shoved his arm affectionately. Louis squawked indignantly, glaring at his long-suffering best mate. _Bless Liam, really_. He put up with all Louis’ shit. And he always spoke sense unfortunately. “Stop brooding and just go and get an explanation from Harry. You’re making this far more difficult than it has to be and you know it. You know where he lives. So go and knock on his door and talk to him like an adult. Because I know it’s hard to believe most of the time, but you _are_ one, Tommo. And you’re being bloody ridiculous.”

Louis recoiled and flicked his hair melodramatically in response, but not before shooting another glare at Liam, even though he knew he was right.

It’s just that before it was like Louis had been living his own romantic plotline. He was the idealistic protagonist of his own rom-com and he’d been pining for Harry from afar for so long, and they’d finally met and kissed and _now_

_Well now everything had gone to shit._

And Louis had no idea where he had gone wrong. He can’t have come on too strong, surely? (Not when Harry was worse than he was, groping him like it was his whole life’s purpose. It was fucking amazing quite honestly.) But did Harry only want to kiss him,feel him up and then send him on his merry way when he realised Louis wasn’t able to sleep with him right there and then?

If that really was the case then Harry is quite bluntly, a dickhead – and it’s not like he _knows_ Harry, not really. They literally just met, he really could be a dickhead for all he knows.

The lovely, awkward Harry he thought he had met on Saturday, well, it might have been a facade, a convincing disguise in the form of a benevolent prince - an evil way of snaring desperate idiots like Louis. (It worked like a charm, didn’t it?)

Or maybe he’s being too harsh. Even just thinking about Harry like this is causing a gnawing guilt to ache through his body. 

Maybe in actuality, there was a good reason for Harry’s sudden change in behaviour and Harry just wasn’t comfortable telling Louis? Maybe a really serious one? And Harry really is still that benevolent prince he met and immediately wanted to protect.

(Well now Louis feels like the dickhead.)

But now, as Louis awaits the 7.27 a.m. train to Charing Cross, in his white hightops and denim jacket, the sleeves scrunched up to his elbows, he contemplates getting to the studio late and taking another train, but as he glances at the board, there isn't another one until ten to eight, and then he'd be in trouble with the new producers he's working with today. First impressions and all that. Louis doesn't want to look like an unprofessional twat. 

So he's got no choice. He has to take this one.

But if he picked the fourth carriage to sit in like he usually did, Louis was still going to be in for an uncomfortable morning train journey and it was far too early for this – whatever _this_ was - and he still felt a bit hungover and he slept like shit last night, plus he has a god awful headache and his stomach is doing weird things at the mere thought of seeing Harry again today and

_There he is._

Harry immediately finds Louis’ gaze a little way along the platform, as the train pulls in. He’s dressed in a white, airy blouse, several of the buttons undone, ( _God_ ) silver framed sunglasses are sitting atop his head (it’s sunny today, despite it being September and last week’s early signs of a chilly autumn to come. And it’s completely the wrong weather for Louis’ mood, _fuck you_ sun) and black skinny jeans like the ones he was wearing the last time they... (Louis groans internally - or maybe not so internally judging by the dirty look a lady has just given him. Rude.) Oh, and he's got his usual brown messenger bag over his shoulder, grasping at the strap, and he’s clutching a book in his other hand. And Louis kind of wants to know what it is. And Louis kind of also feels sick. (It's probably a book of poetry if he knows this guy at all.)

Though judging by the less-than-friendly expression on Harry’s face, he doesn’t looked too thrilled about this either, staring at Louis for a moment longer and then flicking his gaze toward the train. It’s unreadable, blank. (No dimples to be seen here then.)

_Come back, dimples._

Louis rubs his face vigorously, huffing out a breath, scratching at the stubble along his jaw line. (It’s getting quite long, he needs a shave.) He boards the train and sees Harry get on through the adjacent doors. Louis hesitates as Harry sits down in his usual seat, and then Louis begins speedily walking through to the next carriage, finding the fleeting walk past Harry fucking excruciating as he makes his way into the next carriage, his face burning, knowing full well there’s an empty seat right next to Harry. He briefly looks behind his shoulder as he goes, and it’s a mistake.

Harry looks _pissed._

_What is happening?_

This is not how Louis’ rom-com is supposed to go. This is a strictly no angst zone. This is unacceptable. Fuck everything. Louis hates romantic comedies. (He’s definitely _not_ going home to watch _Love Actually_ again tonight. Fuck that film.) And he especially hates his imaginary one because so far it sucks balls. And Louis hasn’t even got to do any sucking yet. Or received it either. 

Outrageous.

But Harry’s _face._

He looked insulted, _hurt._ And Louis had done that. Like he might as well have just slapped him across the face out of nowhere.

But why is he the one acting hurt? Louis is the one who should be giving Harry evils for the way he just dumped him outside his doorstep after vigorously snogging his face right off.

Alright, so he had to leave anyway, but what was with the way Harry just suddenly went cold, acting more like a sulky brat than the lovely, bumbling, extremely polite boy that kissed him like he wanted to kiss him forever. (To be fair, Louis' been acting like a sulky brat since, so he can hardly take the high ground. But that's not the point.)

 _Ugh_ , Louis’ chest aches.

He finds an empty seat in the fifth carriage and fortunately is only able to see the top of the back of Harry’s head from this angle. He sees him remove his sunglasses from his head and put on his headphones, and Louis tries to shut his mind off from the routine he’s had for the last three months, every Tuesday.

Louis’ favourite day of the week because he got to see Harry.

Well, he knew now.

Never trust appearances; especially not cherubic faced, curly lads with dimples and Jagger lips. Especially ones named Harry Styles. Except he couldn’t stop thinking about Harry Styles.

Honestly, feelings were _evil._

**

_I wanna see you but you’re not mine. I wanna see you but you're not mine._

The words repeat inside Harry’s headphones as the song fades out. He skips backwards on his iPod to re-play it.

He’s pining, and he’s miserable, and kind of heartbroken.

Which is stupid. Scratch those last three.

But everything had been wonderful, perfect even, like straight out of a movie. The way they’d met was literally the beginning of _Notting Hill_ for fuck’s sake _–_ one of Harry’s favourites. If they’d inadvertently re-created another scene from another one of his favourite rom-coms too, say _Love Actually,_ Harry was positive he would have come on the spot.

Now Harry just feels like an prize _idiot_. He barely knows Louis is the thing. So they gave Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant a run for their money? They literally only spent an hour together. That’s it. They’re not a couple, they’re not friends, they’re not anything. But he really wanted to be _something_ to Louis. (Correction: he _wants_ to be _something_ to Louis.)

See, Harry thinks he’s pined for Louis just about enough now; always missing him by passing him on the street, seeing him walk in front of a moving crowd as they exit a tube train, or at the station. It’s been _months_ , since he first saw Louis last December, almost ten bloody months ago. That’s how long he’s been weaving in and out and around Louis’ life from afar, like he’s always looking through a window in Covent Garden.

That’s where he first saw him.

The Christmas decorations were up, giant red and gold glitter baubles hung over the entrance to Covent Garden Market and dozens and dozens hung up indoors too. A reef of glistening blue fairy lights surrounding the sides of the square, a giant disco ball high up, hanging in the middle of the ceiling. Everything gleaming and sparkling in the artificial lights, lively noise and laughter, and talkative voices murmuring around the vicinity, shopping for Christmas presents and spending stupid amounts of money on all the food and novelty trinkets and chocolate treats on display, selling like hotcakes regardless.

Then he saw him. Those azure blue crinkly eyes smiling in the tiny watch shop through the small squared windows.

Louis had glanced at Harry for only a moment, smirking, but it was enough. He had Harry’s attention as soon as his eyes met his, and he was a _goner_ instantly. Crazy but true.

He’d had his hair styled in a quiff that night and was wearing a brown suede jacket, similar to one he owned himself, and the lighting in the shop had caught Louis’ eyes, making the blue in them look even more blue. He’d been with two shorter women; one with brown hair who looked to be in her mid-forties; and the other a much younger girl with silver blonde hair and purple highlights, who he’d guessed were his mother and sister, based on the way he playfully shoved the girl around a bit, ruffling her hair and her pouting, annoyed and swatting Louis away as he cackled, pleased with himself, while the older woman looked on, smiling brightly, her eyes glittering with fondness as she attempted to suppress her laughter.

Harry must have been staring like an idiot, mouth agape because he was so enthralled and intrigued by this boy, and not just because Louis was bloody gorgeous, (though that was a massive draw upon first sight, he can admit that) but also by his delicate mannerisms, and the sound of his muffled laughter through the glass, and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and Harry was utterly endeared by him.

Shopping with his older sister, Gemma, at the time, she’d caught him red-handed,staring at Louis. ( _“Oi, smitten kitten,”_ she’d said, teasingly. _“Why don’t you just casually go in there and do some flirting.You're a charmer, you should have no problem._ _Go get his number. I dare you.”_ Harry was appalled at the idea. _“I can’t just go in there and ask for his number. He doesn’t know me!_ ” “ _So ask if you can get to know him,”_ she had shrugged, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips _. “Go on.”_ As if it were that easy!)

He stared at Louis a few minutes longer (albeit somewhat creepily, you know, as he was standing there, glued to the ground, gawping at a literal stranger) while Louis obliviously checked out some watches that were on the display inside, while outside Harry tried to work up the courage to go in and start a conversation with him. Instead, he gave up on the idea as he watched them leave the shop from the other side, then walked back to the tube station with Gemma, frustration colouring his tone all the way home.

Sure, it was just a brief, fleeting moment with a stranger at the time, but Harry had thought about it a lot, and for some reason wasn’t able to shake Louis’ face from his memory.

But after that, like some cosmic joke, he’d see him around everywhere; sometimes purposefully looking out for him, other times, he’d just happen to come across Louis by pure coincidence.

Of course, Harry liked to believe it was fate’s work. Being a hopeless romantic and all that jazz.

Then in the summer, Harry started working at Starbucks (one on Regent Street) to make ends meet since his struggling career as an unsigned musician – who spent half the time trying to lock down any club or pub or lousy, shoebox sized venue that would have him – just to play small half-hour sets singing covers to sometimes only a couple of dozen people or less, which was failing to pay for his rent alone. He'd started out so well, even getting a demo of his, 'Don't Let Me Go', played on Radio 1. (Albeit very late at night, but still, it was amazing! His song was on the radio!) And then it had all gone down hill from there, and now he's back serving mocha frappuccinos and caramel macchiatos. (Oh, joy.) He took nine a.m. starting shifts on Tuesday mornings that lasted until the evening and finished at six, always hoping it was Louis walking into the Starbucks. (He'd snapped his his head up at door on the rare, quiet moments of calm in the place so much, he had an awful crick in his neck now.)

That’s when Harry started to see Louis on the train. ( _Fate was at it again_ , he told himself happily. _They were meant to be, there were._ It was serendipity!) He would sneak glances, telling himself he'd go and speak to him this time. But he always made excuses: it was too packed, or it was too quiet or he’d annoy the other passengers, or that Louis might not even _want_ to talk to him. Harry would instead watch Louis discreetly as he exited the train, getting off a few stops before Harry did, like he always did. 

A handful of times, he’d even seen Louis at bars in Leicester Square. Again, he never plucked up the courage to go over and talk to him, as Louis was always surrounded by company, energetic and bouncy and laughing the loudest, shouting the occasional “Aaaayyyy!” a lot, waving his hands animatedly, jumping around with the amount of excitement a five year old had. Louis was the life of the party and everyone fought for his attention. Harry's cheeks were in grave danger of splitting completely as the amount of grinning he was doing, just looking at Louis, was about to break the metaphorical How-Much-More-Adorable-Can-This-Boy-Be meter. 

One night, right about the time they began taking the same train, Harry was in the same night club as Louis, and Harry had watched him with such over-the-top, hopelessly pathetic heart eyes - according to his flatmate Niall, a blonde, charming Irish guy with blue eyes and a massive appetite, always cheerful and ready to have a good time with a pint never out of his hand - and Niall had had just about enough mood kill for the time being. Niall was about to put a stop to this. (Or attempt to at least. He wasn't a miracle worker even if he was Irish.)

“Right," he announced, clapping a hand roughly on Harry's shoulder, startling him away from Louis' direction. "I've had enough of this. Go over and ask him out, will ya? Do us all a favour." He gestured over to Louis aggressively. "He's definitely gay if that's what you're concerned about. Never mind those girls in his face. He's just an affectionate person probably. No big deal."

"He's occupied," Harry replied sullenly, glaring at a man now with his hand over Louis' arse cheek.

"Fucking hell, Harry," he groaned. "You’re making me wanna poke pins in me eyes with the way you’re staring at him all googly eyed and pining like a lovesick puppy.” He took a large gulp of his Guinness. "Just go over there!"

Harry sighed, bracing himself. Alright, okay. He was going to do it this time. He would go over there and get his name at least. Harry adjusted his hat, and undid a couple more buttons. Niall noticed immediately, cackling with laughter, throwing his head back.

"That's it, mate! Go for it, get that cleavage out!" 

Harry laughed back at him, undoing one more button for maximum affect, when he turned his head around to see a different guy shove his tongue down Louis' throat. And Louis did not seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, they both looked very well acquainted indeed. Was probably his boyfriend. Fuck it all.

His heart fell out of his arse.

He spun back around to face Niall. "Oh, shit," he said as he saw what Harry had just seen. "Aw, Haz, I'm sorry, man." 

Harry skulked back over to him, arms crossed, his smile wiped off. "Well, that's that. Can we go home now? I have another early shift tomorrow anyway," he reasoned, feeling like utter shit. Why did he wait so long?

“Let me just finish this pint and we’ll be on our way, yeah?” He clapped a reassuring hand around Harry’s shoulders and half hugged him affectionately as Harry continued to look like a puppy that had been kicked as he watched Louis laugh and hug some guy who had his hand on his peachy, curvy bum, grinning from ear to ear.

And then at last, like fate had a hand in it, that invisible red thread tying them together, they met, smack in the middle of the blue. Quite literally smacked.

He had thought hopefully, maybe, they could be possibly try being friends if not anything more, but after Louis literally just walked straight past him into the next carriage instead of where he usually sits on a Tuesday morning, never having sat nor stood anywhere different other than that same carriage since Harry had first started to notice him...

Well he guessed that idea was shot out of the water now.

Louis obviously doesn't want to know him. Wants to forget they ever happened. Harry was a mistake to him. And Louis has a _boyfriend_ , or a friend with benefits at the very least. 

He has someone _else_.

He has _Liam.  Whoever was on the other end of the phone. That was probably him that night too._

And he’s heard and seen a sufficient amount about Liam to know he’s at least ninety percent correct about this. Seen Louis with Liam more than enough times to know what their deal is. Niall even thinks he might be right too.

There’s a ten percent chance Harry has got it completely wrong though...

He thinks.

No, he _knows._

He has to stop kidding himself. Louis isn’t looking for exclusivity apparently. That kinda puts a damper on Harry’s strong desire for a committed monogamous relationship. He doesn’t want to be someone’s hook up, or a onetime thing. He wants to be someone’s _boyfriend._

(Preferably Louis’ boyfriend.)

Someone’s favourite _person_. (And not just his mum’s, thanks.)

Well that isn’t true. He is his sister’s favourite person. And Niall’s too. 

But he wants to mean something _else_ to someone. Someone _different_. Something _intimate_.

Harry shifts in his seat and leans his head against the window in the awkward and uncomfortable position his headphones are creating, feeling miserable, wanting to remember how Louis’ mouth had felt on his, a little scratchy from his stubble, but Harry had liked it, liked the burn. He wanted to torture himself with the pretty sounds he made when he sucked into the sensitive flesh in his neck and wondered whether he’d left a lovebite. Left his mark on Louis. Maybe then he’d remember what it felt like with Harry, how great it was, how _amazing_ it was. Surely he felt it too?

But there was a seat directly next to him and Louis had walked past him like he hadn't needed his mouth just to breathe only three days ago. He'd used Harry like a distraction. He was possibly with someone and had used Harry to cheat with. Ugh. Harry is so angry at that. 

Thank god they didn't actually go any further, he thinks bitterly. 

Harry shuffles his iPod and lets it play, skipping each track that was too happy or too hopeful about love, wanting to wallow a bit longer over this obviously one-sided almost romance that he's sure is over before it has even really begun, but a tiny part of Harry is still stupidly hoping that maybe this is just the part of the film where it all went wrong just before it's about to get better.

He just hopes it doesn't get too much worse before then.

**

Oh _shit_.

Shit, shit, shit.

It’s a Thursday lunchtime on his day off, and Harry tries to swiftly veer around a table with books lined up neatly on its square, burgundy surface, trying not to knock any of the books off and cause any more of a commotion than he already has, (which isn't a realistic task where he's concerned, if he's honest) as he stumbles again on the carpet of Waterstones in Trafalgar Square, and then looks down, checks for any object that might have caused his trip – _nope,_ it was just _Harry_ and his poor incapability to control his Bambi legs – and almost twists his ankle in his three inch Chelsea boots in the process.

He launches himself behind a bookshelf for cover.

Why did he do that, you ask? Well, because he’s trying to hide from Louis obviously.

It’s a failed mission.

Louis easily finds Harry’s gaze in the middle of the bookshop.

_Abort, abort._

“Harry?”

There was no point pretending he didn’t hear him; he’d been caught and Harry is fully aware how ridiculous he looks attempting to disguise his gangly body behind the bookshelf in the section – Harry glances at the sign on top of the black wooden, towering bookshelf in white lettering: **Romance & Erotica.**

Oh well that’s just great. Lovely. Louis’ going to think he’s looking for shitty, appallingly written porn to read because he’s that desperate for some relief.

(He _is_ , but that’s beside the point.)

But it wouldn’t be that bad if Louis realises Harry’s quite into bondage and would very much like for Louis to – _okay, enough._

He can’t have Louis so he needs to shut up about it.

Though, if he walked out now it would create even more unbearable train journeys on Tuesdays. Harry’s now least favourite day. And he’s very sad about that fact. So he’s going to have to talk to Louis. There’s no way out now.

“Harry, is that you?” Louis asks again, walking up to where Harry looks like a fucking idiot having just grabbed the first book within reach and shoved it in his face as if that’s going to hide him.

“ _Louis_ ,” he says, with faux surprise. He’s a shit actor. And Louis must think so too because he’s _smirking_ at him.

“Reading anything... _exciting_?” he says, his blue eyes swimming with amusement.

Harry wants to both kiss that look off his gorgeous face and throw this book at him. Hard. 

“Oh, yeah, it’s really good,” he tries to sound enthusiastic. He fails. “I er, like to skim the middle pages, to er... to get the gist of the story, you know, before I decide if I’d like it or not.”

And _what_ was _that_?

As soon as he finishes his mildly mortifying sentence, he wants to actually crawl into a darkened abyss and never emerge again. (He's flustered merely by Louis' presence and he hates that he can feel the redness radiating off his cheeks, completely giving him away.)

But not before he glimpses the book he’s picked up – a thousandth duplicated erotica novel with the typical, stock images of a masquerade mask and a whip on the cover and of course _it’s fucking upside down._

_FUCK_

Harry can literally feel his cheeks burning hot red. This is awful. Someone end him please. He’s going to die of embarrassment anyway. Though all he sees when he looks at him is  Louis' closed eyes, his long eyelashes fluttering as Harry mouthed down his neck and the image is burned onto his retinas...

And then he drops the book to the floor like it’s just scorched his skin. He bends down quick as a whippet and scrambles to put it back.

“Interesting tip,” he says, looking like he’s about to burst into laughter. “I never would have thought of that.” And is that sarcasm he detects? 

There’s a long beat of horrific silence.

Fuck it.

Harry lets out a long exhale. “I don’t think anyone would, other than bloody me,” he says, humiliated, his shoddy facade dropping completely.

Louis’ face splits into a shit eating grin, his eyes crinkling and just starts _cackling_ with laughter, making these really weird identical sounds over and over like he’s struggling to breathe. Really bloody loudly. So loudly that customers whip their heads round and turn to look at the disturbance, glancing up from quietly inspecting their chosen books, some older people shooting Louis sharp, cross looks.

Harry can't help it. He laughs his arse off too. 

“Oh, my God, Harry,” he says, still giggling uncontrollably, his eyes closing tightly and opening again repeatedly. “Come on, you, let’s go somewhere else,” he says, a tad more composure back in his voice, a softness seeping through. His eyes basically sparkle when they look at Harry. Or maybe he's imagining it. Harry _really_ wants to kiss him again.

 _Oh, God_. He’s so wonderful.

Harry’s missed him.

And he doesn’t really know him that well, barely at all, really. And yet he feels pulled towards him, drawn to him automatically. They click, Harry thinks.

 _Please don’t have someone else,_ he prays hopelessly.

Louis gently takes hold of Harry’s hand, (Harry could swear he briefly strokes it like he’s made of glass, which, yeah, it feels really, really nice, sending little electric sparks through his veins), then Louis abruptly pulls him out of the shop and outside onto the pavement. Harry follows his lead instinctively, relishing the feel of Louis' small, sweaty palm, clutching onto Harry's like it's the most normal occurrence, like they've done this a million times before.

Harry smiles down at him, and Louis smiles up.

Then suddenly a pair of strong arms wrap around Louis' waist, completely encompassing his middle, gripping into the fabric of Louis' tank, and under his navy hoodie. (Harry no likey. Not one bit.)

"Alright, Lou?" He plants a massive smack on Louis' cheek with his mouth.

Harry stares, willing his jealously to calm down, clutching onto Louis' hand tighter. He thinks Louis gives him a quick squeeze back, but why would he do that? When Liam is right here? What's he holding Harry's hand for anyway? Doesn't Liam care?

Louis must notice Harry's discomfort, eyeing him thoughtfully as Liam rambles on about a meeting on Monday morning. He cheerfully replies to Liam and excuses himself swiftly. Liam takes his cue to leave, winking at Harry before he goes traipsing off further into the crowds of Trafalgar Square. Weird. It all makes Harry feel very uneasy, but before he can excuse himself too, Louis pulls him along and through the square too in the opposite direction. 

** 

Louis drags him into the nearest coffee shop. A non-brand, but a nice one. It's cosy and quaint and Louis immediately orders two lattes for them both. Harry wonders why he's suddenly so into him again, after completely ignoring him on the train. But as Louis keeps sneakily glancing up at Harry as he waits in the queue for their lattes, (which Harry just let him order without protest for some reason. If it was anyone else he'd have protested. But whatever Louis wants, Harry can't help but let him have. Which... bad. This is going to end in tears) he forgets about their doomed non-existent love for a minute, locking his gaze with Louis' coy, ocean blue eyes, who's smiling at him warmly, and Harry notices they have a little bit of green in them. His heart flutters. 

They find a table at the back of the shop, away from most of the people already here, munching on chocolate muffins and carrot cake and sipping their espressos in tiny cute china. (Harry briefly thinks about finding a replica in Ikea of a fancy teapot he's spotted. What? It's a cute set.)

And anyway, it momentarily takes away Harry's dread about what Louis possibly wants to talk about. Is he going to explain he's attached? That what happened on Saturday was a mistake and that he's sorry? But he'd still like to know Harry anyway? Harry feels sick. Why can't this turn out like _The Wedding Planner_? So Louis might already have someone, but then he'll realise it's Harry he should really be with, and he doesn't actually love his fiance. (Not that Louis is engaged. Oh, Jesus, well he _hopes_ not.)

“Look, we need to have a chat. Take a seat, Harry," he tells him bluntly. Harry's a bit startled. 

Harry eyes him with suspicious eyes, but slowly sits down anyway. “Okay," he drawls. "Is this a friendly chat or is it an interrogation?”

“No, course not,” Louis laughs. “Sorry, that came out a bit bossy. But we do need to talk and sort this out." He stirs the foam atop of his latte and takes a dainty sip, pursing his lips together. Harry thinks it's fucking cute. And now he's sad again. But then Louis says, "I think there’s been a misunderstanding somewhere and I’d really like for us to figure that out."

Harry nods. "Okay." Maybe there's hope yet?

"And Liam’s been bugging me about this all week so –“

“ _Liam_?” Harry says suddenly, disdain in his face, his brows furrowed. 

 “Okay, _that_ right _there.”_ Louis points an accusatory finger at Harry's chest, waving it about in a gesticulatory manner. “That’s what I mean. You acted so weird back there when he turned up. Why don't you like Liam? As far as I’m aware you don’t know him in any other circumstances, do you?" 

“Well, my friend Niall knows of him through an old mutual friend. And we’ve kind of seen you two together, you know, out and stuff, in a few clubs now and then.” There's a clip to Harry's tone.

“Okay...” Louis seems confused.

Huh.

Harry lets out a frustrated sigh. “Why didn’t you just tell me about him?” he blurts suddenly.

“I didn’t think I had to?” Louis replies, a bit curtly. "Not yet. Why would I tell you immediately about my -"

**

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Harry appears incredulous. “You didn’t think you had to?” The crease between his eyebrows is deepening. (Louis’ kind of a bit scared of Angry Harry, honestly.) “Look, not everyone is into _sharing,_ alright?” he says the word with disgust. "If that's what you think."

_Sharing?_

Oh.

Shit, he’s got this _all_ wrong.

Louis doesn’t share either. Not _people._  Definitely not in the way in which Harry is currently implying. And he especially doesn’t want to share _Harry_ with anyone else. Not like _that._  No way. Not ever. 

“If I’m with someone, or dating them, or you know, doing... whatever, having a _thing_ with them..." he trails off. "I personally prefer to be with a person one at a time, you know? I’m one hundred percent the monogamous type, and if you’re not then –”

Oh God.

Does Harry think he’s dating Liam? 

_Dear God.  
_

He can’t believe he was that oblivious to it before. Of course, _Harry_ would think this... or maybe anyone would... Has Louis really been this dumb? If he had the reflex to punch himself in the face right now, he literally would. Him on the bloody phone, probably sounding like he was flirting, while Harry had stared at him hurt and confused.

 _Aww, Harry,_ he thinks. 

He presses his lips firmly together to stifle his incoming fits of laughter at the mere idea of dating _Liam_ of all people, which Harry probably won’t appreciate right this second, since it’s Louis’ stupid fault that has caused this ridiculous misunderstanding,in which they’ve both spent the last week fucking _miserable._

(He makes a mental note to tone down his tactile flirting with other men.)

(Definitely not a clever idea if he wants to maybe keep Harry.)

(Not that he has him yet or anything, but you know.)

“Oh, God. Harry. No.” Louis shakes his head, unable to meet his eyes, so he looks down incase he laughs in his face. That would be very unwise. And hurtful. And he just wants to make Harry smile again.

“What?” Harry says, his face softening into a sort of almost frightened expression. Like he’s panicking. He retreats his hands away from the table and puts them in his lap, his lips transforming into a lost, confused line.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says, unable to stop the fond smile spreading onto his lips. “Liam’s me best mate. That’s all.”

There’s a few beats of silence, only the sounds of a mixture of loud and hushed murmuring voices bouncing around the cafe, the clattering of plates, the occasional screech of the coffee maker.

“Oh,” is all Harry says for a moment. “So... you and Liam are –”

“Not together in any shape or form,” he finishes for him. “Well, he is my songwriting partner too but that’s about it. Definitely no friskiness going on there, absolutely _not!_ ” he laughs.

Harry’s starting to appear much more relaxed and happier about the whole thing, but he’s still hesitant when he asks slowly, “But you’re single though? There’s no one else at all?”

“No,” he grins. “Well, there is one guy. A curly lad. Bit of a hipster, if I’m honest. He’s alright though. Not _too_ pretentious anyway –”

“Heyyy,” Harry drawls, and he smiles, wide and huge, his green eyes gleaming and those dimples pop again.

Yaaaaay! 

He’s missed those babies.

“There’s no one else, Harry,” he says, just to absolutely confirm he is one hundred percent available for Harry Styles to do with whatever he pleases.

“Good,” he says, a small, shy smile making its way onto those plush lips again.

“You reckon?” Louis smiles.

“Yeah, I reckon,” he grins. Then he closes his eyes, half-laughing and covering his face with large, ringed hands. “I was so sure that... Ugh, I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions. I was an idiot. When you were on the phone... I should have just said something then. But I was..."

“No, it’s my fault. I’m really sorry, Harry. I'm the idiot. I’m tactile. I'm affectionate, always have been, well, to the people I care about. And yeah, I guess I flirt a lot. But I don't mean to do it. And it certainly doesn't mean anything with Liam, not like _that._   He's just my boy. My mate." He pauses, hit with a wrong image. "It’s kind of gross actually. I mean, Liam’s a good looking lad, don't get me wrong, but that would be like me going out with my brother or summat.” He shudders exaggeratedly, comically, and Harry giggles. “That would be incest, Harry!”

Harry grins wide and completely unabashedly, his eyes just as animated. Louis matches it. 

"Okay," Harry breathes out, relieved, clearly a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. And this could all have been avoided if one of them had just said something sooner. What a pair they make. Louis likes the idea of being a pair. Yes. Very much.

"Wait," Louis says. "So just to be clear, we've _both_ available?" 

"Yep," says Harry, popping the P. "I'm a single pringle ready to -"

"No, don't say it!" Louis laughs, fondness flitting through his entire body.

"Mingle," Harry finishes, shooting two thumbs up at Louis, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

_Oh, my. God. This. Boy._

Louis wants to kiss him all over.

"So, Louis," he drawls, tunefully. It makes Louis shiver. "Do you wanna maybe go on a date with me? Like on a proper date." 

"This not a date?" he teases. "You could of told me."

Harry grins. "I mean like dinner or something. Somewhere nice, somewhere in the city. Tomorrow night? Or is that too soon?" he adds quickly, momentarily alarmed.

"No, it's not too soon," he grins back. "I think I know a place. Somewhere 'nice' that you speak of," he smiles, unable to stop staring at this lovely boy, wearing a pinkish shirt with a flowered pattern on. "Nice shirt, by the way. Suits you. It's very quirky." 

Harry blushes. "Thank you, Louis," he says, so earnestly. 

Yep. Louis definitely wants to keep him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading if you're following this story, or if you'd prefer to wait until it's finished, that's fine too :) Next chapter is their first official date. Yay!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!


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